


Eggnog and Grace

by violue



Series: For the Love of Barachiel [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angel Dean Winchester, Christmas Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 01:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13136472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violue/pseuds/violue
Summary: Dean is full of surprises, whether Castiel likes them or not.





	Eggnog and Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to post something quick and Christmas-y. This is a timestamp to Bourbon and Grace, so make sure you read that first. 
> 
> Beta'd by Lydie. If there are any mistakes, e-mail me and I'll give you her home address so you can smack her with a rolled up newspaper.

Castiel has never really been a fan of Christmas. As a child, Christmas meant getting into stiff, pristine clothing and going to churches and dinners with relatives he barely knew, and getting books for presents. Castiel loves reading, but at ten, sometimes a kid just wants some damn Transformers to play with. As a teenager, Christmas meant detached phone calls from his parents while Castiel sat in his dorm in London’s chapterhouse for the Men of Letters. He didn’t even have Hannah with him in those days; girls were sent to the much newer school in Paris. As an adult, Christmas often was forgotten entirely, there always seemed to be some mission that needed tending, some study that took up Castiel’s time.

Christmas, hell, most holidays in general, never felt all that important. He always felt like he was missing something by not being into it, but… it’s not as though he can force himself to feel that elusive Christmas Spirit. Christmas is an afterthought to him, something he spared little thought to until Hannah insisted on giving him some small gift. With her gone, Castiel doesn’t expect to acknowledge the holiday season at all.

Which is why it catches him off guard when he walks into his small apartment on the afternoon of December twenty-fourth, to see that it is very, very much decorated for the holidays. There is rich green garland running along the edge of the ceiling of the kitchen and the living room, possibly into the other rooms as well, and that garland has silver and gold stars hung from it at even intervals. There are white icicle lights around the door frame and windows, cute snowmen magnets on the fridge, red ribbons tied on cabinet handles and table legs. The walls, which were definitely a mediocre shade of taupe when Castiel left this morning, are now _green_ and covered in cardboard imitations of candy canes and tree ornaments. There is a modest-sized live pine tree in one corner of the living room with an open box of ornaments next to it. Castiel’s bookshelves are covered in artificial poinsettias, his antique bookends, depicting various roman gods, are now wearing little red hats and scarves. It smells like gingerbread in here.

This can’t be his home, and yet it is.

There’s a loud ping, and Castiel looks at his rarely used oven in disbelief. How is… how.

“Hey, you’re home!”

Castiel looks to the man coming from the other room, and his jaw drops.

Castiel has seen many things in the months since he met Dean. He’s seen an angel’s wings, he’s seen grace bend and twist as though it were dancing, he’s seen monsters get their eyes burned out of their heads, demon smoke ripped out of unwilling vessels with bare hands, the Northern Lights, sunset at Ipanema Beach, and what binge eating looks like when there are no consequences.

He never expected to see Dean, also known as Archangel Barachiel, wearing a Christmas sweater. It’s a patchwork of sorts, large red, white, and black squares, with holly, poinsettias, Christmas trees, and doves embroidered in various sections. The sweater has a red forward-point collar, with downright _garrish_ white stitching along the edge. It’s horrific.

Dean is beaming. He turns off the oven timer, and doesn’t flinch in the slightest when he pulls a cookie sheet out with his bare hands. It’s bare slabs of gingerbread on the sheet, and oh heavens he’s planning to make a gingerbread house.

“What…” Castiel can’t figure out how to finish his sentence, and pauses for a few moments while Dean is testing the give of his gingerbread. “ _What happened to my apartment_?”

“Today’s Christmas Eve,” Dean says.

“And you celebrated that with… with this?” Castiel says, gesturing to… well, everything.

“You can look as horrified as you want, Cas, this ain’t going anywhere.”

“Where did it even _come from_?”

“Storage.”

“Dean, I’m not exactly a Christmas person…”

“Human relationships are all about compromise, Cas,” Dean says, pulling another sheet of gingerbread out of the fridge and popping it into the oven.

“I… yes, that’s true,” Castiel says warily. Dean likes to play this card when Castiel doesn’t want to do something that Dean thinks will be fun.

“Well, last week we spent the _whole weekend_ watching those God-awful Lord of the Rings movies, so now it’s my turn!”

Castiel’s offended now. “First of all, those movies are a _masterpiece,_ not God-awful. Second, how is _this_ comparable?”

Dean just shrugs. “It just is, Cas. I’ve never done the Christmas thing, I want to do the Christmas thing, and you’re going to do it with me.”

Despite what various lore says, Castiel is beginning to wonder if Barachiel is actually the archangel of petulance.

“Christ was born in April,” Castiel tries.

Dean grins. “First of all, you’re wrong, he was born in what is now called _October_ , second, I’m not celebrating him, I’m celebrating Christmas. The gooey, colorful, musical, commercial holiday. The amalgamation of centuries of mutating and evolving traditions.”

Castiel takes off his coat, settling it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “You’re serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just… I suppose this is unexpected, is all. You’re an _angel,_ celebrating a corrupted pagan holiday that was in turn corrupted by commercialism.”

“Hey the pagans had _tons_ of great ideas. I’m not gonna look down on them just because they didn’t worship me or my absentee dad. And I _like_ the commercial version. I like the music and the cute decorations and the tacky sweaters and the _food,_ Cas. The _food._ ”

“You really did not strike me as the type…”

“I’m old and full of surprises,” Dean says with a wink.

In the face of such joy, Castiel can’t in good conscience try to stand against this. “How much will I be expected to… participate?”

Dean pulls a sweater out of… nowhere. It’s not too bad, Castiel supposes. Bright red, white hems, a few snowflakes, snowy trees, and snowmen stitched on the front. At least there’s no patchwork. Castiel accepts the sweater, putting it on over his black t-shirt and waiting patiently when Dean decides it needs to be zipped up.

“How do I look?” Castiel says, holding his arms out.

“Good. But you always look good,” Dean says, waggling his eyebrows.

“Are all angels such flirts?” Castiel says, rolling his eyes.

“You should meet Balthazar,” Dean says, before frowning. “Actually you’re just his type, you should _not_ meet Balthazar.”

Castiel grins. “Are all angels so _possessive_?”

Dean pulls Castiel close, leaning in and kissing him hard. “Yes,” he all but hisses. Then he pulls back. “Oh wait. No, this won’t do,” he says, shaking his head. He pulls Castiel toward the bedroom, and Castiel smiles when he sees the mistletoe hanging over the door.

“Ah,” he says, flicking the mistletoe with one finger.

“Gotta do this right,” Dean says, licking back into Castiel’s mouth. He tastes like eggnog, and Castiel finds himself hoping there’s some for him to drink in the fridge.

“You really are full of surprises,” Castiel mutters between kisses. “You know… I haven’t got any gifts for you, I didn’t know we were celebrating Christmas.”

Dean presses Castiel against the door frame, hands roaming down Castiel’s sides. “No present, huh? I think I know of a way you can make that up to me.” He kisses down Castiel’s neck, breathing in deep as he goes. He’s told Castiel that his soul smells incredible, and though Castiel can’t imagine what in the world a human soul would smell like, it seems to be catnip to the archangel Barachiel.

“Alright, Dean,” Castiel says, feeling all the tension of a week back with the godforsaken Men of Letters melt away, “how can I make it up to you?”

Dean breaks away, heading back for the kitchen. “Wash your hands, you’re going to help me build a gingerbread house!”

Castiel stares, slack-jawed for a long moment. Neither his brain nor his groin is accepting that this moment isn’t going in the direction he thought it was, even as he hears the sound of Dean opening cabinets and drawers.

“Shake a leg, Cas, this ain’t gonna build itself!” Dean shouts.

Castiel sighs, willing his erection to retreat and heading to the bathroom to wash his hands.

  
  


  
  


Fine, he’s going to build a damn gingerbread house.

 


End file.
